Yuletide
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair (and Henry). Oneshot for Christmas. Post-finale. "Can I sleep down here? I know Santa won't come if I'm not in my bed, but I don't want Monkey to be lonely."


Tiny feet pad lightly against the carpeting as he moves across the room, and he slowly, carefully opens the door making sure to muffle to click by sliding his small hand in between the door and the door jam before yanking it open. His head pokes out; dark brown hair moving with the breeze as he moves his head back and forth to case out the hallway.

Seeing how empty the hallway is save for the dog curled up just outside his door, seeing the doors shut without any light peeking out from underneath, he pushes open the door to his bedroom. He moves onto the tip of his toes careful to keep noise at a minimum as he heads down the hallway towards the staircase. But the sound of nails clacking against the hardwood behind him causes him to pause, to turn and twist to glare at the dog trailing behind him.

"Shh, Monkey," Henry hisses as he raises a finger to his lips. "If you can't be quiet, you'll have to stay here."

The dog sinks down to his hindquarters, and his tail wags against the hardwood as he cocks his head to the side. Satisfied that Monkey understands, Henry turns around and begins to descend the staircase only to pause on the next floor at the abatement Grandmère's snoring. He holds his breath, curls his hand around Monkey's collar to keep the dog from moving forward until he hears a loud snort from behind the door to Grandmère and Zayde's room, until he is satisfied that he will not be caught sneaking downstairs by his grandparents.

And he takes the final staircase at the run rather than a timid walk so that his bare feet slide across the hardwood, so that he has to reach out and grab the edge of the couch to keep from falling as he reaches the edge of the living room. His eyes skirt from the presents under the tree – packages of all shapes and sizes wrapped in shiny paper of red, green, and white – to the stockings hung over the fireplace – one stocking for every member of his family – and finally to the space just before the fireplace.

The empty space.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion as he moves towards the fireplace, as he shifts his gaze from the empty space to the small table set just to the left of the fireplace where he set the plate of cookies and the glass of milk for Santa and the small bowl of carrots for Rudolph. And the realization that the cookies and carrots are gone bring tears to his eyes.

Big, fat tears that stream down his face when he grabs his stocking and finds it to be empty; when he moves towards the tree and finds no additions to the piles he created last night when he sorted the gifts by recipient with Zayde's help. Big, fat tears that cloud his vision so he misses the way Monkey laps up the spilled milk from the floor as he darts upstairs.

Stumbling and falling, he crashes his knee into the lip of the staircase and creating so much racket that lights flick on behind closed doors and stream under closed doors, but he refuses to pause or muffle the sound of his movements at he continues running up the staircase to the top floor. One hand clutches his knee; one hand rises up to knock against the closed door. A hurried rapping that is punctuated by his sniffles and his tears.

"Henry, what—"

He pushes past his father to scramble into the large bed, to launch himself into his mother's embrace before she can finish buttoning up the pajama top she has borrowed from his father. And he presses his face into the side of her neck as he chokes back his sobs, as he tries to press himself further into her embrace.

"San—Santa thinks I'm bad," he whimpers as his mother runs her fingers through his hair, as she strokes his back gently and coos in his ear for him to calm down and tell her what's wrong. The bed dips ever so slightly when his father takes a seat beside them, and Henry turns his head to look at his father when he feels a larger, colder hand press against his back just below where his mother touches his back.

"What do you mean, Henry?" Chuck questions. His gaze lifts from his son to that of his wife, too look at her in alarm for just a moment because he doesn't understand how Henry made the leap from cheerful excitement to weepy disappoint so quickly. "Why do you think Santa thinks that?"

"He – _hiccup_ – ate the cookies but he didn't – _hiccup_ – give me any presents."

Henry's tears are collected on the tips of his mother's fingers and wiped away so that he can see the soft, gentle smile on her lips. Henry's chin is tilted by his father's fingers and held in his hand so that he can see the worry disappear from his father's eyes as his gaze is directed towards the clock on the bedside table.

"Henry, it's only eleven o'clock. Santa hasn't reached New York yet."

"He hasn't?" Henry asks with a sniffle. "But how come the cookies are gone?"

"I think someone might have eaten them," Blair explains after a short pause. Her suggestion is questioned by the little boy curled in her embrace; his own suggestion coming in the way he pokes his fingers into the swell of her stomach through the blue fabric of the pajama top.

"Do you eat them, Mommy? You kinda look like Cookie Monster."

Her gasp of indignation causes her to release her hold on him, to fold her arms across her chest as her smile melts from her face. And she murmurs under her breath about how Santa might not visit at all now considering how rude her little boy has become.

"It's okay, Mommy," Henry replies twisting his face up to look at his mother with the innocent, doe-eyes he inherited from her, "Daddy says the baby makes you even more bee-a-you-tea-ful."

He elongates the last word, stretches out the syllables until the corners of her mouth lift upward. And he shifts to his knees so that he can peer down at her with those bright, brown eyes as he slides small hands against her cheeks to cup them, to hold them in the same way he has seen his father do a thousand times before.

"You so pretty, Mommy."

"And you're a charming son of a Chuck, aren't you?" She replies saucily, but big hands clamp around tiny ears and Henry misses the final portion of her question thanks to his father's intervention.

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'bitch'."

"That only applies when he's being crazy," Blair retorts before Henry is scooped up into his father's arms and carried out of the room with the announcement that he needs to set out more cookies before Santa arrives.

"Are you sure Santa hasn't come yet?" Henry whispers in his father's ear as they descend the staircase, as they move past the open doors where worried relatives lurk. And his father squeezes him tighter as promises his son that Santa has not arrived yet because he never wanted his son to go through the experience of waking up to find his cookies uneaten and no presents assembled around the fireplace.

Waving away the concern of his in-laws, Chuck carries Henry past the living room and into the kitchen placing the little boy on the counter near the cookie jar and handing him a fresh place upon which to stack his offerings to Saint Nick. The little boy slowly, carefully selects the nicest looking cookies – big, round ones made by Dorota and Henry earlier in the week with no crumbles or cracks – while his father pours a new glass of milk before pushing himself off the counter so that he can carry his plate back into the living room.

"Wait," Henry says with panic interwoven into his voice, "we need carrots for the reindeer!"

He thrusts the plate into his father's hands without concern for the way Chuck must juggle the unexpected addition to the glass of milk in his hand and hurries back into the kitchen to yank open the refrigerator door and gather two handfuls of carrots because he doesn't have time to count out one for each of Santa's reindeer.

"Ready," he announces as he moves past his father towards the living room. With longer legs and an easier stride, his father reaches the open door connecting the dining room to the living room before Henry, and the little boy looks up in confusion at the way his father pauses.

"I think we figured out who ate Santa's cookies, Henry," Chuck informs him with a gesture of his elbow where Monkey lies flopped on his side underneath the stockings hung from the mantle of the fireplace. Tiny feet pad lightly against the carpeting as he moves across the room, and the dog lifts his head with a whimper to lick at the fingers that reach out to stroke his fur.

"Remember how Mommy and I told you not to share your cookies with Monkey?" Chuck asks, and Henry nods his head because that's one battle that seems to occur every time Henry has cookies to eat. "This is why. They make his stomach hurt."

"Is Monkey gonna be okay, Daddy?" Henry questions as his father reaches out to stroke Monkey's ear, to follow the path of Henry's hand against the dog's stomach.

"He'll be fine, but he'll need to stay down here and greet Santa rather sleep in your bed tonight."

"Oh," Henry replies softly. "Can I sleep down here? I know Santa won't come if I'm not in my bed, but I don't want Monkey to be lonely."

"Of course, Henry," his father replies wrapping his arm around Henry's shoulders and pulling him into a hug. The little boy smiles, strokes his hand against Monkey's belly once more before telling his father that they need to put the cookies, carrots, and milk out.

"Just incase," he replies in a matter of fact tone. And Chuck slides his hands under Henry's arms and lifts him up so that Henry can place Santa's offerings on the mantle far out of Monkey's reach before carrying him over to the couch, before placing one of the throw pillows under his hand and draping one of the throw blankets over his body.

"I'm so proud of you," Chuck whispers as he kisses the temple of Henry's head, as the little boy yawns into his pillow. "You're going to be an amazing big brother. Sleep tight."

"Love you, Daddy."

"I love you, too, Henry," Chuck replies as he flicks off the lights and heads back upstairs. Henry's eyes close as he reaches the second floor, and by the time he reaches the top floor, by the time he slides into bed beside his wife, curls his body around hers, and flexes his hand against her belly in assurance that he loves her even if she's starting to resemble Cookie Monster, Henry has fallen fast asleep.

Hot breath is blasted into his face, and he moves one hand out from under the blanket to push away the source only to feel rough tongue against his skin. His eyes open at the feeling and his sleepy features lift into wide grin at the realization that he has become the recipient of Monkey's kisses.

"Monkey, you're okay," he squeals excitedly as he wraps his arms around the dog's neck and squeezes tightly. The action causes the Santa's hat perched on Monkey's head to fall to the floor, and Henry holds on to the dog as he bends down to pick up the red and white hat. Movements that still at the sight of the presents piled in front of the fireplace, at the stocking labeled as his brimming with smaller toys, at the way his parents and grandparents are assembled around the room looking at him with smiles on their faces.

"Merry Christmas, Henry," his mother says as he slides of the couch and moves towards her, as he presses himself against her leg and stares up at her.

"Are these all for me?"

"Not enough toys in the world for such a selfless boy," Zayde interjects before his mother can reply that he didn't need to worry, that Santa would know what a good boy he's been all year.

And Henry releases her leg to investigate the presents, the plop down on the ground and examine the multitude of gifts to every one of his interests – art, animals, sports, movies, and games. Pausing only to return the Santa hat to Monkey's head when Monkey comes over and sits down beside him.

"Now, Monkey, just 'cause you have Santa's hat doesn't mean you can eat his cookies. Those are only for Santa," he informs the dog with a downright serious look on his face. And then he pauses for a moment before adding, "And for Mommy because havin' a baby means she can eat all the cookies she wants even if Dorota says I can only have one. Mommy said so and she's the Queen B—"


End file.
